under pressure, precious things can break
by lydiamartins
Summary: The sound of a world falling.-—Finnick/Annie, for Johanna.


**title: **under pressure, precious things can break  
**characters: **Annie, Roman, Mags, Finnick, President Snow, tributes, and other OC characters.  
**summary:** The sound of a world falling.-—Finnick/Annie, for Johanna.  
**a/n: **sorry for spag errors and the incredible lateness of the fic; this is rushed especially in the middle.  
**disclaimer: **i don't own anything besides the story idea; the original characters and everything else belong to Suzanne Collins.  
**dedication: **this is for juneii gge, for johanna (turtledoves)  
**prompt: **Finnick/Annie

* * *

ACT I: HOLOCAUST

* * *

It's just an accident.

There's these series of golden gates down by District 12, past the wire barbed fences—there used to be guards there, Peacekeepers with clunky uniforms who have long deserted the post, for reasons unknown (and it's only a matter of time before the conspiracy theories turn into myths to keep children in line)—where an outsider was found.

Not from District Thirteen, but a real outsider, too: it's all over the news for the first couple of days. The man, wiry in body shape, rambling off at a mile a minute, was kept in containment in the Capitol. President Snow made a broadcast on CAPITOL TV: almost the whole town had gathered in the dingy café to hear about the news right from the source.

Annie first learns about at the cafe—there's this little place in District 4, nestled in between secondhand bookshops and a ballet studio, and she likes to think that it smells like home, what with the cinnamon and peppermint aftershave its residents have taken to spraying across themselves—on the first Tuesday of the month. She takes a few shifts down there, every now and then, not to pay for the rent: her father's got that covered: but just for a little extra spending money. As much as her parents like to pretend, she knows that money's tight, and a little more would always be good.

Her younger brother, Roman, decides that he wants to train for the Games that day; he tells her at breakfast, wide-eyed and excited grin splayed across his face, _I'm going to train for the Games today! Mum said that if I do well in the Preliminaries, she'll pay all the money necessary for me to move to the Capitol, but only if I'm good enough. Which is why I gotta be good enough._

Of course, she's startled, at first, and knocks down the carton of skim milk, almost laughing, nervously. _Roman, you know that you're not actually going to be training for the Games, right? You're eight years old, you have years before the Reapings even start, and why would you want to train? We're not badly off, and nobody in our family's ever gone into the Games, on purpose, at least_—_this is from school, isn't it? I knew that the Capitol was starting to perpetrate the educational system, but not on this level._

Roman only shakes his head and laughs, _I'm doing it because it's honourable. Somebody has to take on the honourable role, and I'm already eight, that's the thing; it's a bit too late to start training on a full-scale level, but it's better late than never, right?_

_Is this about the money? _Roman had overheard the parents squabbling about the school fees, and she knew that he thought it was his fault, but it wasn't, it isn't, he's eight years old, it isn't his fault. _You're not going into the Games, do you hear me? I'm not going to lose you to the Games. _Her voice is weaker now, because her brother looks at her as though he's somebody else. It's him, of course, not a robot, but it doesn't feel the same; something's changed. _I'm going to the café, _she sighs, _I have a work shift, but I'll pick you up from school, okay?_

_You don't have to_, he shakes his head, turning towards the door, _I'm not going to school today, anyways. I have training to do. _

* * *

The cafe's a small, dingy place: half the time it smells like peppermint-flavoured aftershave, and the other half, an odd combination between alcohol and cinnamon, flavours that don't mix well together. It's near the outskirts of town, a homey feeling place, and typically, there are about five people there, tops—two workers, one technician trying to install some new Capitol equipment or fixing something, a coffeehouse-squatter who spends hours pouring over lengthy classical works and obscure literature volumes, and somebody actually drinking coffee.

Therefore, it's only reasonable to assume that she'd be surprised when it seemed as though half the town was packed into the café, especially on a Tuesday: a school day for the children, a work day for the adults. _Hey, _she pushes her way through the crowd, finally making it to behind the counter, discarding the dust that clings desperately to her garments, and putting on the off-white apron, smudged with coffee ground stains and dried blood. _What's going on here?_

Mags, the old woman who owns the place, nods at her, shaking her head violently, _It's that blasted technician's fault, that's what it is. Sure, I guess the television brings in more business, and that's great and all, but everybody's sitting 'round the television, and nobody's buying coffee. I swear to God, next time that man comes in here, I'm going to throw him out myself!__  
_

_But the television's been here for a few weeks, _Annie ponders, scratching the dirt out of the insides of her fingernails, wondering if a week's pay will be enough to buy a clear polish. _And I worked a shift here a few days back; there was barely anybody here. So, what's changed? _

_It's that man, that's what it is, that man from the Capitol, you know, the prisoner? _Annie raises an eyebrow. _I can't believe that you don't know about this! Anyway, they found this man, outside of District 12, and he's a complete outsider. Not from any of the Districts; he's from this country called China, apparently. There's a whole word out there, not just Panem, and it's disrupting the dynamic of the country. President Snow's made a few public interviews about this, but everything's being kept hush-hush. _The door opens again, and a figure walks towards the counter. _Oh, Finnick, what are you doing here? _Mags exclaims, her tone doting.

Annie, of course, recognizes him—tall, athletic, bronze coloured hair and brooding sea-green eyes—mostly because of the way he constantly smells like chlorine; it throws off the dynamic of the place, to be honest. _Couldn't resist hearing the news, _he smiles back. _Say, what's going on today; any news about that prisoner?_

_Why does everybody know about the prisoner but me?_

Mags shakes her head, _I've told your mother that she should buy those newspapers; her avoidance of everything Capitol related is starting to hurt her knowledge of the world around us. Technology and communication, that's what binds this country together. _

_She's not going to buy the newspapers, especially when money's tight. _

_Well, she should. _Mags pauses, stirring the green-brown liquid, _Oh, I completely forgot. Do the two of you know each other? __Finnick, this is Annie: she takes up shifts here sometimes, helps me out, at low pay too. And Annie, this is Finnick: he volunteers up at the Old Age home down the street. _

_Hello, _she smiles faintly, turning her head away from him, and towards the screen.

The screen fades out into black, and the chatter throughout the room diminishes to an unsteady silence that turns uncomfortable; then, the national anthem plays, just like the one in the Games, and a titter of anxiety spreads quickly. _Good morning, ladies and gentleman, Panem's population, esteemed guests, and others; today, I bring you news about the man we have taken in.__  
_

Mags scoffs, _Taken in? Yeah right. I can't believe that they're pretending that they don't torture him; I saw this exclusive picture in the magazines a few days back; some insane news reporter from District 1 stuck into the Capitol and found the guy, battered and beaten, lying on the cobblestone streets, blood oozing out of his head, and they're just hiding it up like it's no big deal. _

_You don't know that it's real, _Annie says, but her tone is unsure. _It could just be something fake, you know, drawn up. __  
_

_His name is Jackie Li, and he is from the Barren lands. However, he is highly ill; the Death, he reports, is a plague that has spread throughout the Barren lands, everywhere from just outside District 12 throughout the rest of the world. Panem is being protected, of course, and we will institute new safety measures to make sure that everybody is being kept safe. Panem Today, Panem Tomorrow, Panem Forever. _

The screen blanks out, and the room suddenly bursts into uproar; even Annie can't deny that there's something suspicious about the way President Snow speaks, as though he's hiding in a secret—then again, the President always seems like a suspicious character. _Well, _she nods, _I guess it's safe to assume that he's actually being tortured, they put a virus in him, and if anybody in the Districts figures out the truth, then there's going to be panic in the streets, maybe even a small riot, which will be put down quickly enough, and the Capitol's afraid of that, so they're lying to cover up the truth. _Annie laughs, _That can't be true, though. _Her smile drops, _It can't be true, can it?_

Mags nods violently, _Anything's possible these days. _

* * *

Thoughts of the prisoner and a potential rebellion remain in her head, muddled, for the rest of the day. The day spins away into hours of lethargic work, walking through the slums of the district, and back to the streets of mansions, a specific mansion, off-white and purple in shade, brick door, near the end of the road: it's a special delivery, apparently, to the Victor's Village.

Annie's not quite sure why somebody else couldn't have delivered the package, and why somebody from the Victor's Village would want coffee grounds from a small café in the outskirts of town; all Mags had done was winked at her, and told her that she would get a higher wage the next week if she made the delivery herself. She couldn't refuse the money, of course, and Annie had always been curious about the Victor's Village—from outside the gates, it seemed like houses in the Capitol, majestic in their beauty, lush trees and five-acre lands.

She peers through the hole in the door, knocking on it once more. The doorbell rings twice—the haunting melody of a mockingjay, a four-noted rhythm from one of the other districts—before somebody opens the door; a man, a smashed bottle in one hand, and thirty dollars in the other, swings up to the door, eyes hazed over, not quite coherently speaking, _What'dya want?_

Another figure, in the background, hazy and uncertain, walks forward and Annie recognizes him as Mags' friend, Finnick. _Go inside, _he tells the man, maybe his father, maybe his uncle, maybe his friend. _Hello, _he gives her an easy-going smile. _What're you doing here?_

_Mags sent me over, she had an order from your..._

_He's my uncle; he was in the Games, the 55th Annual Hunger Games. _

She stares at him with curiosity; there's something vividly different between reading about the Victors in the books they were mandated to read in school, back when she had been able to afford school and had still been in it, morbidly interested by the tales, and a firsthand account from somebody who personally knew a Victor. _Are all of them like that? All the Victors?_

Finnick shrugs, staring through her. _Everybody thinks that District Four is just like a Career district—like districts 1 and 2. Well, they're wrong about that. We have five victors in all of our history. Five victors out of countless more Games. _

Annie thinks of Rowan, her little brother in his wide-eyed glory and childhood dreams of winning. Being a Victor has never seemed such a dismal fate; then again, perhaps it has been. The whole town seems to avoid the Victor's Village, and she hears screams from the houses inside there in the nights, probably vivid nightmares and recollections of experiences from the Arena. _Don't yo__u have a father? A mother?_

_Don't you have an order? _He snaps.

Her eyes narrow slightly, and she hands the package over, waiting for a signature before hastily walking out of the Victor's Village and very much hoping that she would not set foot in that place again.

* * *

The next week at the café, there's news of a riot in District 11. Then Thursday, District 3. Saturday, District 7. Next Wednesday, District 12; all the districts falling down, one by one, each more slowly contained.

She's sitting on a maroon barstool when the news comes on the television screen; the whole room is meant to be quiet when news like this comes around, but Annie can still hear the chatter and visibly sees the people mouthing to one another what they are not allowed to say, for the Capitol is always watching, and a person can never be too careful.

The introduction into the CAPITOL TV logo is short and brief, and pauses for a moment, the eagle turning a brilliant shade of golden; then, the screen turns white and fades into President Snow, two individuals standing beside him, and about ten or so Peacekeepers with their masks closed down on each side of him. _Panem, today I am joined by esteemed Victors, Seeder and Lyme. _

The first one, Seeder, looks aged but strong, as though she had never resorted to morphling, drug treatments, or alcohol, the way that many of the other victors seemed to have done. The other, Lyme, is relatively young but with blonde hair that looks like a wig and large muscular arms. However, the both of them are mostly flawless: there are no marks or scars on their skin the way that most tributes have collected over the years of mentor training sessions, but they both look blank, as though they have been hijacked and replaced by automatons.

Moments later, the screen blanks out.

_That's new, _Annie states, taking a rag that Mags offers her and briefly wiping down the counter; honestly, she wonders if this is even a job, because some days, she just comes for the company and the television and the aroma of coffee, and other days, she doesn't even come at all.

_What about it? _Finnick, who sits on one of the barstools, speaks up. _The Peacekeepers? The use of the Victors to threaten everybody else throughout Panem? Or how about the way that the eagle turned golden. I'm sure that it has some sort of mighty symbolism._

She rolls her eyes, _This is serious, y'know. Maybe for somebody who has connections to the Capitol, it should be fine, but as soon as the Capitol turns threatening like that, they'll cut down the food supply. We'll be forced to live on seafood for the rest of our days if it comes down to it. _Annie can't help but stare at the screen which has turned blank as though it was never on for a moment longer.

He shrugs, _Life could be worse. _

* * *

The golden eagle gets repetitive after the fifth time of seeing it, and instead of the previous silence that hushed over the room like a cotton wool blanket, chatter and murmurs spread across the café. The voice is different this time; _This is Capitol TV, _causes a eerie silence, however. It's an unexpected broadcast, to say the least; for starters, it's a Sunday. There aren't broadcasts on Sunday—there just aren't.

_From this great nation, _President Snow speaks in an acrid-sounding tone, and reclines back in a white chair; his folds of skin are white, as if blanched, and his hair is greying at the trimmed edges. _Never have we been more unified. Now, more than ever, Panem is speaking with one voice. The Capitols and the District, bound together in solidarity, TESTING, TESTING. _

Murmurs in the café increase in volume; _What's wrong with the television? _Annie leans over the counter, one hand resting on chin, the other crossed over her waist. _I thought that it just got fixed this morning. _

Finnick shakes his head, _Nothing's wrong with the television. It was working just fine five minutes ago. _

_That's the problem with Capitol appliances, _Annie sighs. _They work just fine in all the commercials and the brochures and the handouts, but as soon as you actually buy the product, it starts malfunctioning in less than a year. This television was expensive, really expensive, too. Probably an average person here's annual salary, and then a bit more. _

_As I told you, the television's fine. There might just be something wrong with the broadcasting all the way in the Capitol. _Annie raises an eyebrow, and Finnick slumps his shoulders, _Yeah, nevermind, I didn't think so either. _

For a moment, the screen turns a light shade of blue, then horizontal black-and-blue lines, and then black. _We are forging a stronger future, _President Snow's voice echoes, and his face momentarily appears, before being wiped out again. It's difficult to hear the noises over the chaos inside of the café, and Annie moves closer to the speakers.

_This is a private transmission from District 13. _A man with ashen skin, thinning black hair, and ill fitting glasses speaks, hunched over. _The message: The Mockingjay lives. _

* * *

_We should go shopping, _Sirena nods, always smiling.

Annie only shakes her head, _I don't understand how you can think about shopping at a time like this._

_Annie, this might be the last time where we can even go shopping. _

_I didn't think about it like that._

_You never do. _They end up going to the café instead; there's nowhere besides the small shops in town, and most of them are closed anyways, residents packing up and fleeing to the Woods or to another district before it's too late. Annie's even heard rumours of people being misplaced, changing their identities and moving out of Panem—she briefly ponders that solution, running away, and decides against it. She's never been a coward, at least in her mind.

Sirena's rattling a mile and a minute off about her new job when Peacekeepers walk through the doors. _We've got to go, _Annie blurts out quickly. _Actually, you've gotta go, I have to find Mags. _There's nobody behind the counter.

_She should be here, _Annie rambles off, mainly to herself, because everybody's fleeing the place and there's a few drunk-on-caffeine stragglers who hazily make their way out into the clutches of stoic Peacekeepers. _She was here when we came in, she should be here, unless the Peacekeepers took her. _A blanket of dread sets over her, because if the Peacekeepers took Mags, there's no telling when they would send her back: and if they would send her back in a glass casket or with mental scars or with physical, or perhaps, with nothing at all, just to keep people on edge.

Annie walks outside quickly, blankly staring and then flinching and running away; there's a man with pale skin and ashen features who's bent over on the ground, a whip being forcefully applied to his neck; he struggles for a few moments, and then slides limply onto the ground. She spins around quickly, and notes the pond: at least ten bodies have been dunked underwater.

_She's going to be fine, _Finnick, a familiar figure in a crowd of strangers, catches up to her a few minutes later. _Mags, I mean. I dropped her off at the gates outside of town, and don't worry about her; she'll take care—_

_—of herself, _Annie finishes, wryly. _I know, I know. __Thanks, _she nods at him. _I might see you around. _

(By the time night creeps onto the district, the café is burnt down and all that is left are the ashes and coffee grounds.)

* * *

ACT II: RUN

* * *

_He's doing it again, _she tells her mother over breakfast who only raises an eyebrow for clarification. _Rowan, I mean. He's been going to training even though I told him that there's no point for training these days. _

Her mother, a thin woman, carries herself as though they are upper class, when they are barely passing as middle-upper citizens, something to do with her heritage, perhaps. _Have you asked your father about this? _She asks, turning around and drying dishes that are already dry, cleaning out the fridge and putting the items back just to have something to do.

Annie sighs; she knows employment is harder these days. Everything's harder these days: ever since the Peacekeepers had stationed themselves in the district, any of its citizens were unaware when one of the Peacekeepers would come barging into their home and demand residence and food. Therefore, one always had to be prepared, especially with the security cameras that were being installed in every inch of the town. _I can get a job, if you need. I know that the cafe's burnt down, but there has to be something else that I can do around town._

_All you need to do is help around the house, and work will find its way back here. Then, I'll be able to collect enough fees to pay for your school and to pay for your brother's training at the Academy. _

_Actually, _she moves forward, reaching for one of the dishes and scrubbing the plate raw, _I was thinking about something._

Her mother raises an eyebrow, _That's never a good sign._

_Would you just let me finish? Anyways, Rowan's fees are about thirty thousand coins a year, and my fees for school at my grade level are around twenty thousand coins, and Rowan's are ten thousand coins. If you could just talk to him about this, maybe get him to withdraw from the Academy, both of us could be at school instead of him learning things he doesn't need to learn—_

_If this is about the money, that's not the reason you dropped out of school. At least that's not the reason that you told me you dropped out of school, and I thought that we were going to more honest around each other. _She sets down the plate and moves for her black fake leather purse, reaching for an envelope of money and handing it over. _Here, if you need to go to school, this should cover about one month. _

Annie sighs, _You know that I dropped out of school so that I could help around here, and we need the money for Rowan's training, so there's no point in sending me back to school. _She shakes her head. _It's sort of funny, actually. Somebody in town got news of District 12, and apparently there, no matter how poor anybody is, they send them to school. They don't have fees or anything like that. It's unfair, really, that one of the higher districts has to pay for school and then the lower districts just get everything for free._

_I thought I told you not to be assorting with people from town, _her mother snaps._ Especially if they got news of another district, it means that they did it in an illegal manner, and that can only cause trouble. _

_I'm going into town, _Annie decides, spur of the moment decision (she thinks that she's spending far too much quality time with her mother these days), and takes a few stacks of bills out of the envelope. _I'll be back before curfew._

* * *

Everything spins out of control; there have been town meetings for years on end now, Annie learns, and somewhere along the months, she finds herself enjoying it, strangely enough.

Two weeks into December, the statue of President Snow is broken down, and people takes bits and pieces of the marble and gold home to sell in the market; each piece sells for about a loaf of bread, enough to feed a family for at least a few days. However, the Peacekeepers interference only gets worse as the winter gets harsher. 4

* * *

ACT III: UNDERGROUND

* * *

_If we work together, _Annie says confidently, in a voice she knows is not her own, _then we'll be able to take down the Capitol, once and for all. _

_Meanwhile, _Dylan, one of the younger ones, speaks confidently. _We've got a connection with some of the Peacekeepers in the Capitol. They've taken some of the younger kids from the District, from the Academy here, and those in District 1 and District 2. They're training them to create an elite force to subdue the rebellion, once and for all. _

_We won't be able to stop them, _Annie shakes her head. _There's no way. Sure, people in District 4 know how to fight with a trident and maybe even a spear, but that won't do any good if they have actual weapons, automated ones. _

_We can at least try, _Dylan shrugs. Finnick and Annie move forward; the three of them crowd around the wooden desk, and stare blankly at the computer screen until an image slides onto the screen, then off, then a spiel of codes, and then him.

_Roman? _Her voice breaks, before steadying into a resolve. _What are you doing with them? Did you capture you, torture, brainwash, anything? I know that you think that they have something on you, but the best thing you can do right now is come home._

He stares through her blankly, _I just thought that I would give you a warning. Clear out the town now, before it's too late._

_Roman, what are you talking about? Just_—

_Tomorrow at 12 is when the Peacekeepers strike. Don't be there. _The screen blanks out, and the steady lull of silence permeates throughout the underground chambers, in which they are all thinking that this is the end.

* * *

They kiss once, only once: it's in the middle of winter, and about fifty or so of District 4's residents are camped out in the radiation-protection bunkers underground. It lasts for a bit too long, and Finnick tries not to dwell on it, and Annie forgets it in the morning.

* * *

Annie decides that Finnick is insane. Absolutely insane. _That's not going to work, _she shakes her head, almost laughing. _You can't do that. Nobody can do that; don't you think that people would have tried, before?__  
_

_It's going to be different this time, _he grins at her, determined and resolute expression setting in, and Annie knows that it's a lost cause from the start.

_You can't break out the tributes from the Games._

* * *

Eventually, it works.

* * *

In the morning, Finnick finds himself back in the Capitol, with admirers who reek of perfume and words of caution from President Snow, who wears a white rose in his lapel and smells like sweet poison.

_So, _one of the girls drawls the word out, sprawled out against the doorframe. _You were saying this name in your sleep. __Who's Annie?_

He only sighs and looks away, _A lot of things. _

* * *

The third battle wasn't nearly as successful as the first too, if that was even possible; the first battle was full of unprepared individuals, the second was slightly better, and the third was a massacre.

It was a mistake from the very beginning perhaps—there were storms in the area, perhaps they were Capitol-generated storms that were created in an effort to scare off some of the less violent citizens, but the way that they yanked roots of pine and maple trees out of the grass, crashing them against buildings and homes and other trees alike, didn't make it seem very fake.

Then again, it wouldn't have been the first time the Capitol had devised a very realistic-looking lie: in fact, they were masters of it, which was why the Town Council had decided that the mission would still go on, the way that life does, through the darkness and through the light. _I still don't understand why we're doing this, _a frail-looking boy by the name of Nolan Sandler

(Nolan is decapitated, and for months, all Annie can think of is his head rolling.)

But there is no time to grieve, no time to wait, for time does not wait for anybody, least of all somebody as not deserving as her, and within a few moments, an arm is tightened around her neck; she attempts dodging out of it, throwing a back hammerfist to the attacker's thigh, but then they inject a drug that seems as though it would be disastrous (later, she learns that is morphling and knows that this is the end), and she loosens her grip and falls into metal arms.

* * *

She wakes up and just _knows_—knows that this is the end, because there are metallic bars around her, and this type of metal couldn't have been from any of the Districts, not even District 1, known for their luxury goods, and a million thoughts run through her head at once and then Annie remembers that this was a secret mission, just about ten or so individuals sent through the Channel.

It's not the type of mission that warrants a rescue mission to save any people left behind, any of those who were taken prisoner by the Capitol. It's not.

* * *

ACT IV: CHOICE

* * *

Interestingly enough, shock treatment only starts two months into her captivity; for the first two months, they throw her into an empty cell—the type with no windows, just thirty inch cement walls—during the night, and let her live in the Capitol during the day. _How's life in the Capitol, so far? _One of her escorts, a bright, bubbly woman with fire-orange hair and a matching dress asks.

_It's really nice! _Annie mimics the high-pitched tone; the only way to stay alive seems to be to pretend that she's one of them, one of the people who lives in the Capitol, even though she's just their prisoner.

* * *

Three weeks into shock treatment, they start using a truth serum on her. _This is truth serum, _a sickly sweet voice belonging to a face Annie can't see remarks. _One of the trial batches of it, actually. We decided to use it on you. Open your mouth for a moment. _Annie's heard rumours that rebels, prisoners, dangerous assortments of citizens have been used as lab rats, and wonders how long it will take for them to kill her. The truth serum tastes sweet, like poison berries. _And swallow. Good. __We just want to ask you a few questions. _

_Okay, _she forces a smile; her vision has been impaired, and Annie's gone partially blind in her left eye, completely blind in her right eye, so the blindfold plastered to her face isn't really that necessary. _Whatever you want me to do, I'll do. __  
_

_Good, _Annie can practically hear the beaming smile of the voice. _Let's start with the basics. What's your name?_

_Annie Cresta. _

_What's your mission?_

_I don't have a mission._

_What was your mission? _They tighten the wires keeping her in the chair, and send the electrical shock coursing through her veins; Annie writhes for a few moments, and then laughs, high-pitched and unnatural. _What was your mission?_

_I don't have a mission._

The wires tighten, and it never ends.

* * *

Eventually, Rowan rescues her.

* * *

_Who are you? _Annie can't help but find herself asking; there's a group of woman before her, dressed in full suits of lightweight armour that glimmers under the man-made moonlight, steel and bronze weapons clutched in their hands. They don't look like a group of people that the Capitol could have produced but still, here they are.

_Shieldmaidens,_ the first woman, muscular and hazel-eyed, answers. _We are women, women who do not yet have the responsibility for raising a family and could take up arms to defend Panem; before the war starts, we are the surveillance agents. __You can be one of us, _she speaks in a quiet voice. _Forget boys, forget your past life, build a new future with us to dedicate yourself to the skill of being brave, being a warrior. We've seen you, Anne. You have great potential. _

Annie thinks about it; it is a glorious offer, no doubt. Life in the Capitol is something that she had dreamed of since being a little girl, but somewhere along the path of growing up, the dream had faded into uncertainty; the videos from CAPITOL LIVE TV were faded, and sometimes, she swore that they put the same backdrop video footage in their broadcasts each time. (And she thinks of Rowan and _home _and a bit about Finn, and knows her decision.)

_I can't, I'm sorry, _she turns away. _I'm going home._

The woman sighs, _I had a feeling that you would say that. Here, _she moves forward, offering a thin paper card with names and numbers. _If you ever change your decision, you'll know where to find us. _

* * *

(In one month, the memories will start to fade, and she will rip apart the business card—rip it apart into a thousand shreds and let the rushing waves devour the pieces of paper, and she will wonder if her problems could be devoured so easily.

In one year, she will erase the memories. She will let them flicker into the outskirts of her mind, and then, slowly but surely, let them be devoured by bouts of brief unsureness, but Finnick is there, and she is safe in the knowledge that his love and her responsibility of Rowan—for he will come back, one day—will be enough.

In two years, she will remember and wish that she had never erased the memories in the first place, for memories are too precious to be forgotten, and she's afraid of the person she's becoming. Time will rebuild itself, and Annie will spent hours staring blankly into the sunset, for hours lost, and wondering where she will begin in this new world.

In three years, she will try to forget again, because there is no place in a new world for memories of the past.

In four years -

In four years, there will be no girl.)

* * *

_It's over, _Finnick speaks calmly. The two of them are standing on the outskirts of the Capitol, facing the diamond-coloured mountains; a conglomeration of citizens from all over Panem join together in the center of the city, a mess of people in greys and whites. _So, there's only one question left to ask: what do you want to be, when you grow up? People are filling out forms at the Job Center, we're re-creating the country. Probably going to need some help, but there are other nations in the world, and we're opening up trade connections with them, trying to boost the economy. _

Annie laughs, _Finnick, you're talking like you know what's going on. And, anyways, ar__en't we already grown up?_

He shrugs. _You__ know what I mean._

_I'd like to be a journalist, but that can't happen._

_Well, why not?_

_Because this is District 4,_ she explains. _When you live in District 4, you can be a longliner, a trawler, a canner, a ship captain, a deckhand, a fisherman, and I'm a girl who can't swim, so what does that say? Maybe I can move to another district—oh._ She laughs, _This whole new world thing's going to take a while to get used to. _

* * *

EPILOGUE

* * *

She sees him once, a few years later.

He's taller now, his face a little brighter, almost glowing; he looks happy, and who is she to deny him the simple pleasure of happiness, so rare on the faces of those throughout the districts—_the towns, _she corrects herself, _we don't have districts anymore. _Annie walks by the cafe every now and then; it's a rundown place in the corner of town.

The bookstores have been burned through, and the ashes and dust still remain among the dirt of the ground; there's a statue in the middle of town, the one that was previously a marble one of President Snow, now simply pieces on the floor that will, one day, be sold as souvenirs of a time that nobody cares to remember, that nobody wishes to remember.

It's a town rebuilding itself, a phoenix rising from the ashes, and maybe, one day, it will be strong again.

Everything's a bit odd these days, different; sometimes, Annie finds herself missing the old system, but not too much. She's having breakfast with Rowan when she finally comes to a conclusion. _I've got a new job, _he announces, smiling. She's missed seeing him smile; it looks a bit odd now, out of place, partly because they're practically living above the cafe—Mags hadn't written it into the will, but everybody had just assumed that Annie and Rowan would live there. She used to hate assumptions and feels a little sick that she's grateful for them these days.

_Really? _She doesn't smile back at him, instead hiding the frown of her lips in her coffee cup, taking a sip of the nutmeg-smelling, acrid liquid. _I thought that you were planning on going into the military, what with all the—_She catches her mistake and closes her eyes for a moment, _God, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to bring that up._

Rowan only shrugs and drops the eye contact. _It's okay. It's bound to come up at one point or another. Thing is, the President, the new one, not President Snow, course, needs politicians in his place: they call it a Cabinet, you know? Actually, no, it's called the Senate—there's the House of Representatives, and they need loads of Congressman. Everybody's been flocking to this area, lately, ever since some of the other districts were destroyed, and I don't even know why, but they picked me, and I have a chance. A chance for a new life. _He's almost beaming.

_That's great, _she fakes a smile back at him, trying to force her eyes to smile along with her lips. _I think that I'll try to find a new job today. Or maybe I'll go back to school, now that tuition is free, and all. Look, I'll see you back for dinner, okay? We can talk about how your job interview went?_

_Yeah, _he nods, standing up to leaf through the mail. _Hey, there's something for you—it's from Finn?_

She moves forward, snatching the letter out of his hands—it's not heavy, barely weighs a pound, but she holds it in her hands as though it's a turning point of a life. _I've got to get out of here, _she whispers, almost reverently, because it's the truth, and god damn it, there hasn't been that much of the truth these days; just false promises of how everything is going to get better, how everything will be fine (one day, some day, just not today, never), and it's a slow progression from rebuilding to a new future, a new future Annie realizes she doesn't want to be part of.

Roman quirks an eyebrow, _What are you talking about? You can't leave. What about the apartment, and the café; it's practically yours now, they've sort of rebuilt it, now that Mags is. Oh. I'm sorry.  
_

They're saying sorry more often than not, and Annie sighs, then smiles, heading up the narrow staircase. _I'm leaving._

* * *

Leaving is not so liberating as one might think, as she had thought.

The after effects of a war in Panem have spread throughout the world—India's government has gone completely corrupt, China unconsciously becomes the world's reigning power and there are weekly assassinations on the Queen in England. Sure, it's a brilliant world out there, but sometimes, Annie thinks that the rest of the world is just as messed up as Panem was, and maybe just as messed up as its replacement (America, they're calling it) will end up being.

She meets a boy in Ireland, accidentally; they meet at a pub, this little pub in the middle of nowhere, playing darts, and they talk for ages. His name is Ron Stafford, he drinks too much coffee for his own good, and is overly pessimistic.

Best of all, he doesn't know anything about Panem or the Districts, but is incredibly interested in the matter, so they have loads to talk about, which is always something Annie's worried about. Perhaps they rush into things a bit too quickly, but Ireland feels like coming home with close-knit families that weave her into their own—the Staffords play touch football in the winter with their navy blue sweatervests, and she stands on the sidelines with his brothers' girlfriends, and it feels like settling.

She gets obsessed with Doctor Who, and they argue about who the best companion is for days on end (she's adamant that it's Sarah Jane but he thinks that it's Rory, always going on and on about how you don't need to save all of time and space to be a hero—Annie thinks that most of the times, it's referring to her, to which she reminds him, that she was never a hero, not really).

Annie calls Rowan, now and then, whenever he fancies picking up the telephone. He has a girlfriend, now—she's a normal girl, an actual normal girl (from District 7) named Cassidy—Her eyes widen, and some sisterly instinct takes over, because the next moment, she's curled up on the sofa, eyes gleaming, face glowing, _Blimey, seriously? You have a girlfriend?—_and everybody's lives seem to be wrapping up when hers is just starting.

And everywhere she goes, the letter—_that _letter—is burning a hole in her pocket; Annie won't bring herself to open it. It's probably words of apologies, though there's nothing he has to apologize for.

* * *

She comes back one year later. It's been three years since the kidnapping from the Capitol

Annie's twenty now, and home isn't home anymore; she's probably the one who's outgrown it, but it still feels different: much too different. She takes a job as a journalist and goes anywhere and everywhere, but always finds herself returning back to where it all started. _But I'm not leaving, _she always reminds herself, _not really. I never really left._

* * *

The bouts of calm make her death completely unexpected, to everybody except her. The Death infects the town, slowly on the ground, but most of the town has already taken vaccines to prevent the plague from becoming anything too serious; she never takes the vaccine, and the sickness takes its toll on her one year later, dead at the age of twenty-one.

Three months after her death, Rowan moves out of the apartment, packs up his bags, and heads to Washington DC—he wins the next election, albeit without a competitor, and the next, and the next; he stays in office for seventeen years and fifty-four days, just to beat the record.

Finnick gets married two years later, gets a degree in journalism and goes off to report another war and only thinks that the battleground is all too familiar for his liking. Sirena spends too much trying to forget and loses the vision of what she wanted to be in the wake of _what-if, what-if, what-if, _but years later, she collects herself, and starts over, tries to become somebody she's proud of.

Life moves on: that's all that matters.


End file.
